I recently read a quote by some guy that went “If men had to get married to have sex, more men would be married,” or something like that. It was by way of explaining why men are waiting to get married, if they get married at all.
Gather around kiddies, Auntie Tati has a story for you.
A long time ago when I thought graphic tees were acceptable, in a neighborhood on the other side of Broad Street, your aunt worked in a bar. Now, technically, I was a waitress, but on Monday nights it was just me and the bartender and this bartender had a really bad habit that involved snorting things through a straw and so on Monday nights when the owner would leave the bartender would have to run off to his apartment for any number of excuses leaving me all alone.
Now, because it was a Monday, it wasn’t very crowded so it really wasn’t a very big deal. Even when there was a problem -- like some freak trying to order a Purple Jesus at a neighborhood bar, but couldn’t tell me what is in it -- my attitude took care of it. I simply handed him a bottle of Miller Lite with a smile.
This is how I came to have a group of regulars -- my four musketeers: Manny, Moe, Curly and Bob. They would come in every Monday, ask where the bartender was. I would answer with whatever excuse he gave me before he left. They would laugh and order four pink squirrels and I would give them two Miller Lites and two pints of Lager.
Most Mondays, my four stooges were my only customers, so I grew quite close to them. Even hung out with them occasionally when I wasn’t behind the bar. Over the course of a month of Mondays I learned that Moe was still pining for a lost love and the Curly was funny and smart but sadly very short and that Bob was the only one of the bunch that had a serious girlfriend. Which made sense to me because Bob was tall, with a good head of hair and a decent job.
Eventually, I moved on. Got a job at a law firm, moved east of Broad Street and never looked back. But recently, I had the opportunity to go back to the old hood. See, it was Theresa’s birthday and for some reason she wanted to go to the bar where it all began. She said it was because she had never been and we were always talking about it. Personally, I think she didn’t believe a bar that would hire me as a server existed and so she had to see it for herself. Either way, there we were, standing in the bar, laughing and drinking domestic beer when Curly and Bob walked in.
At first I didn’t recognize Bob because, well, Bob got fat. All those pink squirrels found a home in Bob’s, big, round, 20 pound belly. He was losing his hair and, like a lot of men that are going bald, he decided to grow it long which only called more attention to just how thin it was. He was also wearing a hoodie on a Friday night -- it may have even been dirty.
We got to catching up, me and Bob, and I learned that Manny had moved away and was now married. Curly moved out of the bachelor pad as well and Moe was still pining for that same girl. I then asked Bob if he married his girlfriend from way back when and he explained that when Manny moved, they all decided to look for a new, smaller place. His girlfriend at the time had suggested they get a place together. But Bob wasn’t ready. He was having too much fun being a single guy. And he and Moe and Curly are still having fun being single guys, he added.
Then he asked for my number.
I politely declined to give it to him.
This brings me to the parable of the two Batmen. A lot of actors have worn the batsuit, but I want to call your attention to two names we would all soon rather forget ever played Bruce Wayne -- George Clooney and Val Kilmer.
Since playing in the Batcave, George has gone on to make really incredible movies (and some not so incredible -- Ocean’s 13 anyone?), he was nominated for Best Director, and, let’s face it, he just keeps getting hotter. Val, well, Val, have you seen Val lately?
And I think this goes to the root of the problem. I think a lot of you guys out there look at George Clooney and think, yeah, I’m only gonna get better with age. But the sad truth is most of you are going to grow up to look more like Val Kilmer. You are going to get puffy and chubby and lose your hair and your going to look back on your days of wearing the nipple-clad batsuit as your hottest. And you're going to be kicking yourself for giving away all that free sex back then when you could have secured your future by marrying a woman that would have to have sex with your bloated disgusting self. Hell, she might actually want to have sex with you because the stupid fool loves your punk ass.
Meanwhile that cow you returned to the market because you could get free milk elsewhere is only getting hotter thanks to diet, exercise, really expensive beauty creams and very talented plastic surgeons.
By the way, Val, I said your hottest, not your best. Your best is a toss-up between Real Genius and Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang.